


Something (Jelly)Fishy

by SCFrankles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: fan_flashworks, Gen, Humor, The Adventure of the Lion's Mane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“John,” said Sherlock, “I need you to take off your trousers.”</i> Steady. This is gen, I'm afraid.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With John's help, Sherlock tests the details of an old Edwardian case. (It'll probably help to be familiar with ACD's <i>The Adventure of the Lion's Mane</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something (Jelly)Fishy

**Author's Note:**

> I was recently involved in [a discussion](http://sherlock60.livejournal.com/446716.html?thread=3516668#t3516668) on LJ re ACD's Sherlock Holmes story _The Lion's Mane_. Essentially, I've pinched [tardisjournal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisjournal/pseuds/tardisjournal)'s ideas from that discussion. Always steal from the best! ^^ (And thank you to tardisjournal for being so nice about my story ^_^)
> 
> Sherlock and John are the property of Moffat and Gatiss, and the BBC. Holmes and Watson were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

“John,” said Sherlock, “I need you to take off your trousers.”

John looked up, stared at Sherlock for a moment and then looked back down at his paper. “No,” he said.

Sherlock bounded across the sitting room to John’s chair, and waved an elderly hardback book enthusiastically about. 

John looked up again.

“It’s for a case!” said Sherlock. “All I need for you to do is take off your trousers, have a quick soak in the bath, and then try to get your trousers back on again.”

“Still no,” said John. He went back to his paper and turned over the page.

Sherlock flopped down into his own chair, slapping the book down onto his knee. “Just listen. It’s this idiot Edwardian detective…”

“Oh, God.” John put the paper down and gave Sherlock his full attention. “You’re obsessed! What is it this time?”

Sherlock grinned. “A mysterious death on the Sussex coast…”

“Unsolved?” said John.

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “No, the idiot did get there eventually. Death by jellyfish.”

“Ah,” said John. “Little unusual.” 

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “It was a Lion’s Mane jellyfish. The victim was stung at close quarters in a rock pool and had a heart condition.” He picked up the book. “The real mystery here is how this man ever made a living as a detective. Look.” 

He threw the book at John, who instinctively caught it. 

“Page 102. The victim dies in front of him, after scrambling out of the pool and up a cliff path.” Sherlock leant back in his chair. “The ‘detective’ doesn’t even manage to notice the body is sopping wet, and so it doesn’t occur to him the victim had been in the water.”

“That is strange.” John looked up from the open book and frowned. “But what’s that got to do with me removing my trousers?”

“Second part of our mystery,” said Sherlock. “Apparently the victim got dressed before going for help.” He grimaced. “I can understand the canvas shoes and the coat round the shoulders. But it’s also stated he got back into his trousers.” He stared over at the book in disgust. “In excruciating pain and soaking wet? It’s unbelievable.”

“Yeah, perhaps he didn’t put them back on. Perhaps the detective was being…” John gestured vaguely. “You know. Discreet.”

“What he was being was a fool,” said Sherlock. “You can’t trust anything he says.” He stared at John. “But we could at least test this one point—see how easily you can replace your trousers straight out of the bath?”

“But why can’t you just try it yourself?” said John. 

Sherlock looked scandalised. “I wouldn’t want to risk damaging my trousers. Mine are _expensive.”_ He gave a John a small grin. “Come on. What do you say?”

John looked back at him and smiled.

“No.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Fair enough.” 

He stood up, and gazed sadly at John. 

“There is another case from his Victorian period I can be working on instead.”

Sherlock went over to the kitchen table, and John swiveled his head round to watch him go.

“What case?” he asked suspiciously.

“Hmm?” Sherlock sat himself down at the table. “Oh, madness, and occasionally death, from drug inhalation.” He pulled out a small envelope from his jacket pocket. “A quite extraordinarily rare drug but I think I’ve managed to track down a sample.” 

John folded his newspaper, got up and strode over to the kitchen. He slammed the paper down on the table. 

“A potentially lethal drug and you’ve managed to ‘track down a sample’? That can’t be legal. Or safe.”

“Don’t _worry,”_ said Sherlock, “I'm happy to do this experiment on myself.” He opened the envelope. “And I don’t think such a small dose could do me any harm. It’ll give me some idea of the effects though.” He picked up his blowtorch and smiled. “I’ll just heat it up, and we’ll see what happens…”

John stared at him. “You can’t be serious.” 

A flame sprang forth and Sherlock’s smile got broader.

“Fine,” said John. “Put your blowtorch away and I’ll go and get into the bath.”

 

 

They were in the sitting room once more, and John had spent the past five minutes attempting to get back into his trousers.

“They keep clinging!” yelled John.

“Five minutes, thirty-two seconds,” said Sherlock, staring at his phone. He looked up. “I can’t imagine a dying man wasting this much time attempting to get his clothes back on before going for help. Are you sure you’re really trying?”

John stopped and gave Sherlock a truly eloquent look.

“Right,” said Sherlock.

Just then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Oo-hoo!” came a voice.

“Oh, dear _God,”_ said John. “I can’t let Mrs. Hudson see me like this.”

Sherlock glanced towards the stairs for a moment, and when he looked back at John, his friend had abruptly got his trousers all the way up and was working on the zip.

Sherlock frowned. 

“Interesting…” he mused, and turned to greet their landlady. “Mrs. Hudson, we are in the middle of...”

But Mrs. Hudson was staring at John. “Why are you all wet?”

Sherlock turned to John in triumph. “See,” he said. “Even Mrs. Hudson observed that. I don’t know why the idiot Edwardian detective couldn’t.”

Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a worried look and shook her head. “I just need to tell you both that there’s a man coming to check the central heating this afternoon. He’ll have to come up here and…”

She trailed off. “Can you smell burning..?” She moved towards the kitchen, breaking into a run. “It is burning! The table’s on fire! I can’t believe you’ve been standing there with the table on fire!”

John dashed over to join her. “Bloody hell…” He looked round at Sherlock. “Your blowtorch must have ignited my paper!”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, thoughtfully. “My... ‘chemical sample’ must have heated up as well and been affecting our sense of smell. Explains why we didn’t notice the burning.”

John made an incoherent sound, ran back to Sherlock and grabbed him. “We’ve been inhaling your bloody drug?! How can you be so calm? What did you say it did? Sends people insane?”

Sherlock frowned as John shook him backwards and forwards. “Well, we’re not demonstrating any symptoms of that. In fact, I feel more like I’m going to…”

His eyes widened, just for a moment, and then Sherlock and John passed out together.

 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes to see Mrs. Hudson looking down at him.

“I’ve sent for the fire brigade,” she said, more in sorrow than in anger.

Sherlock struggled to a sitting position. “We’re outside,” he said. He patted the ground. “On the pavement.”

He scrambled up and found John getting up behind him. Sherlock turned and stared at Mrs. Hudson. “How did you get us down?”

“I _carried_ you down,” she said.

“You can’t have,” said John. He still looked dazed.

Mrs. Hudson drew herself up to her full, but still pretty tiny, height. “I did. One at a time, naturally.” She gave Sherlock a pointed look. “I took John down first.”

“Of course!” Sherlock was grinning. “The adrenaline! People can suddenly manage all kinds of feats under its influence. Like saving their much larger tenants. Or—” He pointed at John. “—-getting their trousers back on in a hurry.”

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows as far as they could go, and John gave her a weak smile.

“So it would have been possible for the victim to…” said Sherlock to himself. He frowned. “But why did the idiot assume the body was dry..?”

“Er, Sherlock,” said John, as the fire engine drew up, “it might be a good idea if we discuss this later. Probably best if we were all a bit further away from a burning building.”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Hudson looked up at the 221B flat, as if she’d only just remembered again why they were all down here. 

She looked back over at Sherlock with a glare. “You’d better pray there isn’t any significant damage, young man.” Mrs. Hudson pulled awkwardly at her blouse. “All I really want is a change of clothes and to lie down.” 

She leaned over to John. “I’m sweating buckets,” she whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes and mouth went wide, and he threw up his hands in excitement. “Mrs. Hudson, you are a genius!”

He strode over to her, took her face in his hands and kissed her soundly on the top of her head. Mrs. Hudson batted him away in annoyance.

“Don’t you see?” He swirled to face John. “The victim _was_ wet!”

“Yes,” said John, gingerly trying to get his arm round Mrs. Hudson in order to soothe her. “He’d been swimming.”

“But not just that!” declared Sherlock. “He was in pain, his heart was failing, he was wearing a coat, and he’d severely exerted himself getting back up the cliff path...”

He looked expectantly at John. John shrugged.

Sherlock sighed. “He would have been sweating profusely! Our Edwardian detective would have noticed that the victim was wet, but he obviously assumed it was all perspiration. After all, it _was_ unlikely that a man who had been in the water would try and get his trousers back on.”

“So he wasn’t an idiot after all,” said John, standing aside to allow the firefighters entrance to their smouldering home.

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, he was an idiot. Just not as much of an idiot as I’d at first suspected.”

He beamed at his companions. 

“But then, everyone is an idiot compared to me.”

Mrs. Hudson just stared at him. And then silently but vigorously indicated the smoke that was beginning to leak out of 221B’s windows.

Sherlock smiled at her kindly. “It’ll all be fine, I’m sure.” He indicated Speedy’s. “Shall I go and get everyone a cup of tea before they evacuate the staff?” 

And as he walked away towards the door of the cafe, John held on very tightly to Mrs. Hudson, as she swore and swung her fists blindly in Sherlock’s direction. 

Once again the adrenaline was flowing.

**Author's Note:**

> At the time I wrote this, I was convinced I'd come up with the sweating idea, but I've found this sentence online, from the New Annotated Sherlock Holmes:
> 
> _Edward F. Clark, Jr., defends Holmes by explaining that the ocean water would have largely dried or been blotted off and that any residue would have been commingled with sweat._
> 
> When I read the New Annotated, this must have lodged in my brain attic ^^


End file.
